


That Song

by Cyllene



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Music, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:10:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyllene/pseuds/Cyllene
Summary: After the Apocalypse that wasn’t, Crowley decides it’s time to update Aziraphale’s tastes in music – which leads to an update in their relationship.





	That Song

**Author's Note:**

> Not a songfic.
> 
> * The author does not share Aziraphale’s opinion of the Beach Boys.
> 
> ** The dates of song releases were mostly taken from Google and Wikipedia. There may be errors.

It was an excuse, really, just to spend more time with Aziraphale. After the Apocalypse that wasn’t, Crowley found that all he really wanted to do was be near the angel. Part of it was ongoing caution and paranoia – you don’t just forget 6000 years of worry, fear, and abject terror overnight – and he still couldn’t believe, down deep, that Heaven and Hell would leave them alone for long. They’d stand a better chance against any force sent against them together than apart. And the other reason? Well, Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. 

He had spent three days straight napping on the angel’s sofa. Then several more days just hanging around the store, occasionally scaring off customers. He’d even read a couple of the books that Adam had added to the inventory. Aziraphale hadn’t complained at his presence. In fact, he’d seemed quite pleased to have Crowley there. But after a week of this, Crowley needed – well, he needed an excuse to stay. Which is why he had set out one morning to a nearby vintage music store and returned an hour later with an armload of LPs. 

“Come on Angel. You managed to get to the 1940s, musically speaking. Let’s at least try the next decade. Maybe even the sixties if you’re feeling really adventurous.” 

“No thank you,” Aziraphale said primly. “All that dreadful roll and rock. And that man with the hips.”

Crowley blinked. “It’s rock and roll. And do you mean Elvis? You’d like some of his songs. He even sang about angels and demons once.” 

“Really?”

“Devil in Disguise. It’s a classic.” Crowley knelt to haul the angel’s dusty record player out from under a stack of 18th century first editions. He brushed it off then gave Aziraphale a smirk. “Normally I’d go with streaming music, but that would probably make your head explode. We’ll start slow. Maybe you can work up to a Walkman later. Or an Eight Track.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t want to work up to anything. I’m perfectly happy the way I…”

“It will be fun. And it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do now that Armageddon didn’t.”

“My customers…” he started faintly.

“Songs from 70 years ago will probably drive them away in droves.”

The angel was weakening. “Oh, all right then. But I’m sure I won’t like it.”

Crowley patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”

**

Several hours and four records later, Crowley was starting to wonder if this had been a terrible idea.

When he had started this, the demon hadn’t realized just how painful this would turn out to be. For him. Sure, Aziraphale liked a few Elvis Presley songs. Not the good ones, not “Jailhouse Rock” or “Hound Dog”, but the ballads. The love songs. And the worse part was, being an angel, he could instantly memorize the lyrics. And then he started singing them around the bookshop. So Crowley was forced to listen to the angel crooning “Love You Tender” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight”, completely unaware of what the lyrics were doing to the demon. It was pure torture, worthy of Hell itself. It didn’t help that the angel also had a, well, angelic, singing voice.

After a day and a half of this, Crowley decided that maybe Elvis hadn’t been the best choice after all. One more trip to the vintage record store led to another armload of LPs. How bad could the best of the 1950s be?

Very. Very. Bad. Aziraphale would listen to songs like “Rock Around the Clock” and “Green Door” and give a small polite smile. But he loved “Only You and You Alone” and “Making Believe”. 

Crowley was nothing if not persistent. He was damn well going to drag the angel through the 1950s and into the sixties. He’d be safe in the 60s, he thought. The Beach Boys would save him. But Ray Charles almost defeated him. Specifically, “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” Apparently, it was Aziraphale’s new favourite song. If he wasn’t outright singing it while shelving books or making cocoa, he was humming it under his breath while walking in the park. 

By the time they got to 1959 (Sea of Love), Crowley was exhausted, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He was quite willing to declare a victory of sorts and just leave things where they were. But no. Aziraphale wanted to keep going. He was actually enjoying this, it turned out.

Right, thought Crowley, a little desperately. Let’s crack on for the sixties, as he surreptitiously hid the “Best of Ray Charles” behind some Jane Austen books. 

The first half of that decade was all right. Crowley thought he was getting used to the pain of romantic songs. Or maybe he was just going numb. 

As it turned out, Aziraphale didn’t like the Beach Boys. That argument lasted for days. “Everybody loves the Beach Boys, angel!”

“Well, I don’t. Their songs are just - just sugary confections.”

“You love sugary confections!”

“To eat! Not to listen to. Songs should be, well, they should have something to say. Not just someone going on about good vibrations and fast cars and women in bikinis.”

“There’s nothing wrong with fast cars and good vibrations! Or women in bikinis, for that matter. They’re fun and bouncy. The songs, I mean, not the women. Well, they are too. Oh, you know what I mean.”

“But the lyrics don’t mean anything!”

“So stop listening to the lyrics, and just let the song wash over you.”

Aziraphale looked appalled. “Is that how you listen to music?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes all I really want to do is close my eyes, lie back, and indulge in a sweet confection.” Crowley’s voice trailed off, not at all sure he was still talking about music.

The angel gave him a level look. “Lyrics are important. A song isn’t a song without clear, meaningful lyrics.”

“You are really going to hate rap.”

**

As expected, “Bad Bad Leroy Brown”, “Hippy Hippy Shake”, and “I Fought the Law” (all songs Crowley enjoyed) were not Aziraphale’s cup of tea. The early Beatles also failed to impress. Basically, Aziraphale didn’t like anything with a beat, Crowley had decided. Elvis made a brief resurgence with “Can’t Help Falling in Love”. The demon had to leave the bookshop for several days at that point, until that song was out of Aziraphale’s system. 

Things went fairly well in 1963 and 1964. Most of the music was fairly forgettable. “Ring of Fire” made Crowley flinch, but Aziraphale took pity on him and skipped it once he saw the demon’s reaction, probably assuming it was related to Crowley’s Fall, rather than – anything else. 

And then they reached 1965. And _That Song_.

The instant he heard the first note, Crowley snapped his fingers, miraculously moving the record player’s needle to the next song (Secret Agent Man). Aziraphale glanced up in surprise. “You wouldn’t like that one, angel,” he said, as casually as possible. Aziraphale looked a little confused, but didn’t argue.

**

Later, after Crowley had left, looking a little shaky, Aziraphale put the records neatly back in their sleeves. He picked up the last one and paused, remembering how Crowley had skipped one song, and the fleeting look of pain he had seen on the demon’s face. He turned the album cover over to read the back.

“Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers.

Perhaps it was the band. No self-respecting demon would ever listen to something by a group called The Righteous Brothers, he thought. Curious now, he glanced over his shoulder, made sure he was still alone, then put the record on the turntable and gently set the needle down. And was immediately swept away.

It should have been trite and forgettable. The lyrics were simplistic, the soaring orchestral moments were completely over the top, and Aziraphale could feel his emotions being manipulated from the very start.

He didn’t care. The song was raw pain and yearning and loss and need and wanting and the purest love, all rolled into one. His chest was hurting, he realized as the song ended, and there were tears in his eyes. Twilight had fallen, and the shop was growing dark, but he didn’t put on a light. Instead, he reached out and began the song again.

It was quite possibly the most beautiful song ever created by humans. Better than the Gregorian Chants he had loved, better than every classical composer he had ever heard, better even than Ray Charles. It was – it was glorious. Divine. It was true love, encapsulated in three minutes and thirty-seven seconds of music. How could Crowley hate anything this wonderful? Why ever would he not want to listen to this…? 

Oh.

Aziraphale had not had many sudden revelations in his life. Most of his realizations had crept up on him slowly, over time. Sometimes over centuries. This one though, felt rather like being struck by lightning. This song encapsulated everything he felt for Crowley, everything he had ever yearned for and not been able to have. It _hurt_. It made him physically ache.

And it also made him wonder if the demon just might feel the same.

**

In retrospect, it had probably been a mistake, skipping _That Song_. Crowley hadn’t skipped any other songs. Not even “These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding. It had probably made the angel suspicious. Aziraphale had probably listened to _That Song_ the second the demon was out the door. Was probably reading all kinds of things into it. Probably sitting in his bookshop feeling pity for Crowley, figuring out how to let him down easy. Oh Go- Sat- Somebody! He should have just gritted his teeth and let the damned thing play. What were a few minutes of utter pain and anguish, after all? He’d lived through all the torments of hell at one point or another. _That Song_ didn’t even come close.

Actually, it was much, much worse.

He’d first heard it in the fall of 1965. He’d been sent to Los Angeles to stir up the civil rights movement. Despite what he had said in his reports to Downstairs, he’d had nothing to do with the Watts riots. The humans did that all on their own. No, he’d been sitting in a seedy hotel, getting more than a little drunk on whiskey, gin, and cold American beer, and trying not to think about a certain angel, or the argument they had had a century ago. Despite crossing paths during the blitz, Aziraphale had continued to avoid him. And that hurt. A lot.

Los Angeles. El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora de los Angeles. City of Angels. The irony wasn’t lost on Crowley. He’d taken another swig of the revolting beer – Americans couldn’t seem to get anything right, not even their alcohol – and turned on the radio. And _That Song_ had been playing.

By the end of it, he’d been practically sobbing into his glass and considering going out into the riot, in the hopes that somebody might just miraculously finish him off and put him out of his misery. Discorporation and a visit to Hell sounded pretty good at this point. He hadn’t though. He’d passed out, neglected to sober up, and woken with a hangover for the ages. And a vow to never, ever listen to _That Song_ again.

And he hadn’t. Not even when it was popular all over again because of that ghost movie in the nineties. He’d used up quite a few demonic miracles to make sure he never again had to listen to those lyrics. Radios had switched channels as he passed and the one time his Bentley had tried to play it, he’d glared the car into switching immediately to Tchaikovsky’s “Another One Bites the Dust.”

But now…. It was almost inevitable that Aziraphale had listened to it. And would probably want to talk about it. There was no point in avoiding him, either. If he didn’t head to the bookshop for their scheduled lunch, the angel would only come looking for him. It was time to face the music.

**

Aziraphale had planned it all out. All the things he would finally say to Crowley, starting with “I love you,” followed by quite a few abject apologies for how the angel had treated him through the millennia, especially recently, and ending with a plea for forgiveness. They would have a long conversation, ending in… He wasn’t quite sure what would happen after that. He had hopes, of course, but beyond that, well, it was uncharted territory.

It all went out the window though, when Crowley entered the bookshop, looking a little furtive and not making eye contact. The sight of the demon sent something through Aziraphale, almost like an electric shock and the lyrics of Unchained Melody soared through his mind again. Before he knew it, he had crossed the bookshop floor in three strides, taken the demon’s face in both hands, leaned up, and kissed him passionately.

There was a brief moment when the demon didn’t move, long enough for doubt to start to trickle into Aziraphale’s mind – and then Crowley was kissing him back, arms going around him, swinging him around so he was pinned between the bookshelf and the demon – and the kiss deepened. The tension in Aziraphale relaxed, replaced by relief, happiness, and a wave of sheer, utter love. He wasn’t at all sure which of them it was coming from, but he didn’t really care. Finally. At long last.

Some time later, Crowley broke the kiss and raised his head. His sunglasses were gone (they later found them behind the till where Aziraphale had thrown them), his hair was disheveled from the angel running his hands through it, his lips swollen, his eyes dazed, and several buttons of his shirt were undone (Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how or when he had managed that).

“Uh – What – what brought this on, angel?” It was supposed to sound nonchalant, but it came out dangerously close to a squeak.

“Unchained Melody, by the Righteous Brothers,” Aziraphale answered honestly.

I fucking love that song, Crowley thought, as he dipped his head and pulled the angel into another kiss.


End file.
